Saturday, 13 February 2010

Your name's on the list but don't bother coming in

Wide eyed, expectant and wondering if we can get away with sunglasses at 11 p.m. The American and I headed off to our first fash party last night.

As our taxi makes it's way to SoHo I fantasise about sharing a (free) drink at the (free) bar with Lady Ga Ga. I imagine how we'd talk of the genius of Armani Prive and she would compliment me on my asymmetric dress and I would laugh and reveal it was "...only from H&M." She would then introduce me to Anna Wintour who would find me side splittingly hilarious and sign me up for a Vogue column charting my acerbic take on the fashion industry. Did I mention the free bar?

We arrive to find an unmarked door-great start, everyone knows the coolest parties are hard to find. Then we're ushered into a goods lift that takes us to a corridor that smells of fish, that takes us to another corridor so dark I can't see my hand in front in me. We open the door in front of us and BOOM! Heat, people, sweat, small space. The clamber for the bar is 6 people deep.

"What is the point of a free bar when you can't get to it?" I wail.

I scan the room for Lady Ga Ga. I scan again for any celebs who might be drunk enough to do something stupid enough for me to get a story out of. I scan for some outfits at least interesting enough to write about, but everyone is too tightly packed in for me to even see. And it's fucking dark.

And there is nowhere to stand. If I weighed 100 pounds less I might be able to slide into a space between someone's armpit.

''I want to leave." says The American.
"Me too."

We head out and get a taxi over to the Tribecca Grand Hotel to party number two where there's a great DJ line up and Little Boots is playing.

My heart sinks when I see a line of at least 200 outside.


This is my fault. I told The American we should be fashionably late. Turns out would should have been unfashionably early and then we might have been fashionably in the party rather than than unfashionably at the back of the queue.

We agree that we're too old to be standing in line for parties in zero degrees so instead we go to a nearby bar and pay fourteen bucks each for cocktails. When we get home where I read on twitter that Peaches Geldof was at the party. I watch in disgusted fascination as she conducts a hyper Z list post modern love-in with superblogger Bryan Boy.

"What are you doing?" says The American.
"I am at the party without being there." I say
"I don't understand." he says
"Virtually." I say

Virtually. Nearly. But not quite.

Night Night.

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